


scars for souvenirs

by nightwideopen



Series: Clint Barton Bingo [8]
Category: Marvel
Genre: 5+1 Things, 616 Clint Barton, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bingo, Bucky Barnes Bingo 2019, Clint Barton Bingo 2019, Deaf Clint Barton, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, MCU Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Scars, Vague Space Mission, WinterHawk Bingo 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 11:09:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20357500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: Five times Clint tells Bucky a story behind one of his scars, and one time Bucky tells him one in return.





	scars for souvenirs

**Author's Note:**

> ** CBB Square filled:** Clint/Bucky  
** BBB Square filled:** Free Space  
** WHB Square filled:** Domesticity
> 
> **trigger warnings** for implied past child abuse, a quick mention of self-mutilation, a touch-and-go conversation that might include some ableist language, and canonical mentions of torture and violence 
> 
> gratuitous mention of Avengers Assemble!
> 
> also 40s bucky was rich and you can't change my mind. please refer to Clara's top notch explanation [here](https://claraxbarton.tumblr.com/post/184689449915)
> 
> i forgot about alpine because this fic is mcu bucky i hope he forgives me
> 
> ** A/N JUNE 7 2020: reading this back i've made note of my HORRIBLE misjudgement of cochlear implants and levels of deafness and the help of hearing aids in relation to all that. it's dubious science at best, misinformation at worst. please take it with a grain of salt and suspend your disbelief if you can. i'm very sorry!!!!**

**1.**

“Do people ever ask you about your scars?”

Bucky’s not asking about Clint’s scars; he doesn’t even particularly care about how he got them. They’re a part of him, sure, so Bucky is partial to each and every one of them by default, but he’s not big on prying. If Clint wants to tell him, he will, but for now Bucky’s just making conversation. It’s one of those common ground things Steve always insists is incredibly important in a developing relationship. Bucky has his fair share of marred skin, and people are always half a second away from telling him he should cover-up. 

He’s been through some shit, and if _he_ has to deal with everything that happened_,_ then surely people can deal with seeing the scars that litter his skin as a result of it. He’s got so many that he can’t even count them, and it’s not a big deal. Really, it isn’t, 

And even though he doesn’t talk about them, that doesn’t mean he’s embarrassed by them. They’re just… personal. 

No one really asks anyway. The medical files on exactly how his arm was grafted into his shoulder and chest are public record after all; it’d be weirder if someone _did_ ask.

So Bucky doesn’t talk about his scars.

Not with anyone.

However, the terrifying notion of a relationship aside, Clint _is_ the only other Avenger that walks around with as much skin showing as Bucky, and he’s the only one with almost as many scars to boot. Natasha gives him unimpressed looks when Bucky asks how many are from her, usually with Steve at her side glaring at him in a way that says _just talk to him._

So, Bucky does that. 

Or he tries to. This fragile thing he’s found himself in, trying to build trust between tentative dates and less tentative make-out sessions probably won’t do well if he just starts asking intrusive questions whenever he damn well feels like it. Bucky sure knows that he’d hate it the other way around. He’s an information _sponge, _not an information _leech_. 

“Wuh?” Clint turns his attention from the television. Sort of. He’s got a mouth full of questionable leftover noodles and keeps glancing back at the screen. “M’scars? Not really. They’re all dumb stories.”

“You’re an Avenger. They can’t all be _oh, I fell down._” Bucky shakes his head. “I’m sure they’re not dumb.”

Clint laughs, and his eyes stop darting to the TV.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says gently. “You can just ask. Anytime. It’s okay, really. I don’t have anything to hide from you and I know that you probably don’t want me just blurting out invasive questions, but I don’t mind. I’m kind of bad at sharing unless you ask, anyway. So, here’s permission. ‘Kay? Don’t be shy.” 

When Bucky nods, Clint sets down the styrofoam container he was eating from and grabs the hem of his soft grey shirt. When he lifts it up to his armpits, he points to a splotchy scar with six points just above his belly button.

“What do you think this is from?” he asks excitedly. “Go on, guess.”

Bucky wrinkles his nose. “Gunshot?”

“I was making a peanut butter sandwich with a steak knife and I dropped it because Lucky licked my knee and I didn’t want it to fall on him so I tried to catch it between the counter and my stomach. Stitched myself up right where you’re sitting.”

Bucky blinks. “That’s– _What?”_

Clint nods then goes back to eating his noodles and watching _Hoarders_, leaving Bucky… well, not as shocked he thought he’d be. He’s quickly gotten used to the inherently disastrous nature of everything Clint does. It follows him around like a shadow. But it’s one of the things that caught Bucky’s interest from the start; Clint’s clumsiness is a disguise for his latent competence, and Bucky loves to watch everyone – except Maria Hill, apparently – fall for it. 

But the genuinely accidental nature of this particular incident leaves Bucky more amused than anything. And he grows all the fonder for it.

**2.**

They’re supposed to be on their way to the Tower for a briefing, something that Steve made perfectly clear they must _absolutely _be on time for seeing as they missed the last… six of them. But what Steve doesn’t know is that there is a perfectly valid reason as to why they're always late, and empty threats aren’t exactly going to change that. 

It’s too fucking early.

It’s actually mostly Clint who doesn’t want to get up, Bucky doesn’t generally get into the business of waking sleeping archers. But in the interest of being a good friend to Steve, Bucky gently pulls Clint’s shirt over his head and starts kissing his way down his neck and chest until he makes it far enough to ruck up Clint’s boxers as far as they’ll go, so Bucky can bite at the most sensitive part of his thighs. 

For Steve, you know?

Clint just needs a little motivation, that’s all.

“_Bucky_.” He squirms fruitlessly. It’s coupled with little involuntary noises and it’s lovely and uninhibited because he can’t hear himself. “Come _on_.”

Clint is barely awake, and wouldn’t listen to any half-assed chastising even if he had his ears in. And the begging just makes Bucky latch on more firmly, sucking hard enough to form a bruise. After they arrive at the briefing inevitably late and get bored, he can press his thumb into it under the table to make Clint squirm some more. 

Bucky pinches at his hip and shifts one of his knees up so he can crawl back up and settle comfortably to land a kiss on Clint’s stomach. Then Clint tilts his head all the way back into his pillow and Bucky catches sight of something he hasn’t seen before. There’s a pale, white scar running from Clint’s chin to his earlobe. How had he never seen that before? It just reminds him of just how fleeting this is. He’s hardly seen enough of Clint for him to be Bucky’s. His eyes normally focus on the scars in easy view, the ones littering his chest and shoulders that make themselves known the way Bucky’s do.

Bucky is quickly learning that Clint isn’t a mirror image of himself.

He pats Clint’s chest and gets both hands free so he can sign to him.

_“You know I hate to pry,”_ he says carefully because since their last talk Clint has made it abundantly clear that Bucky is allowed to ask, _“But what happened there?”_

Bucky runs a thumb along the scar, gentle as anything. Clint smiles softly at him, and Bucky can tell that it’s in spite of the obviously desperate state that he’s been left in. Whoops. 

“This one’s not as dumb,” Clint mutters, face falling instantly. “Wasn’t so much an accident, either.” Clint reaches over to grab his hearing aids and slips them into his ears. “We’re gonna be late.”

Bucky’s about to retaliate with, _since when do you care about being late?_ But he stops, actually reads the look on Clint’s face and the message behind his words. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Which is fine. So Bucky kisses him instead and picks up where he left off. It’s not entirely unlike Bucky to kill the mood, but they've had a bad few days and he doesn’t want to spoil this one _finally _good moment. 

“Don’t wanna go,” he mumbles against Clint’s lips. “You don’t have to tell me. Sorry.”

“S’okay. But if you’re not so concerned with time,” Clint says, “There’s another scar _under _my boxers that, if you should find it, I’d be happy to tell you the story behind.”

Bucky does find it, forty minutes later, when they’re most definitely late and even less concerned about the time. The scar is about the size of a quarter, almost a perfect circle. Bucky runs a flesh finger over it, unable to conjure up some plausible injury that would warrant such a specific mark being left in its wake. 

“Do I really wanna know?”

Clint nods enthusiastically, tousled hair getting even more unruly as his head moves against the pillow. He swipes some sweaty strands out of his eyes and a mischievous grin spreads across his face.

“Me and Tony were testing out specialty arrowheads, right? And the flare ones weren’t coming out like we’d hoped, so we gave one of the functional ones to Dum-E to hold onto and he basically tried to shove it up my ass. But thankfully he missed.”

“Oh my God.”

**3.**

The thing about accidentally moving into Clint’s apartment is the shitty water pressure of his shower. Tony would have a heart attack and a half if he ever spent the night. And even though Bucky lived through the Depression, World War II, and being hosed down by HYDRA for the better part of a century, he grew up rich and spent a good portion of his newfound freedom living in Stark’s fancy tower. 

Sue him for being a little spoiled. He deserves it.

But Bucky doesn’t complain, because Clint grew up poor, and then an orphan, and then in a circus, and has never lived in Stark’s _there are twelve settings on the __showerhead_ and _oh my God I could fit six men in here_ tower. He knows that Clint knows about the shitty water pressure, though, because more often than not these days, Bucky comes home to Clint – his… boyfriend? – sitting in a bubble bath drinking wine out of a coffee mug and burning the hell out of Bucky’s fancy candles. 

Like today.

Bucky can’t help it if he moans as he sinks into the hot water, much needed after the thirty mile hike Steve put him through. (“My serum is a fucking _knock-off_, Rogers, I’m not the pinnacle of humanity like you.”) He tilts his head back over the lip of the tub and parts his knees when he feels Clint scrambling to get between them.

“You’re the best, did you know that?” Bucky says dreamily. 

“Obviously,” comes Clint’s deflective reply. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything more, just snakes his arms around Clint’s shoulders – careful not to push him too far into the water when he notices that Clint is wearing his decidedly _not_ waterproof BTE hearing aids – and presses a kiss to the top of his head. They both know Clint is too tall for this, but also that Clint loves being held. So, careful compromise.

But then Bucky looks again, wondering how the hell he’s never noticed the angry scars behind Clint’s ears. They’re messy and crude, unlike the rest of Clint’s scars, and Bucky’s heart starts pounding.

Clint notices.

He turns his head with a worried look. “You okay? Is this not okay? I’ll get out if–”

“No! No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Bucky doesn’t know what expression crosses his face, but he can see the understanding cross Clint’s.

“You’ve never seen those before.”

It’s not a question.

The sigh he lets out makes Bucky not want to know.

“You know you don’t have to tell me,” he says, petting absently at Clint’s chest. “Ever. They’re yours. No matter what this is between us, you don’t owe me anything.”

“I know. But… when you say stuff like that it makes me want to. I trust you.”

He reaches over the tub and his mug hits the tiles with a soft clink. To Bucky’s surprise, Clint turns around so they’re face to face. They don’t often talk like this, preferring the cover of night or the safety of blankets, secrets whispered in passing and accidental admissions. Something shifts in Bucky and something shifts in the room and something sure as hell shifts between them when he meets Clint’s eyes and sees the haunted look in them.

“Before–” He clears his throat and reaches out for Bucky’s hand, squeezing hard. “I didn’t want these,” he points to his hearing aids, “At first. And by the time I joined the Avengers I got used to being mostly deaf. It was fine. It didn’t hinder my performances in the circus or my conversations – everyone picked up ASL after a few years – so I didn’t really mind. 

“But then it got worse. And things got dangerous. And then when it really went, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I needed help.

“So Tony paid for me to get cochlear implants. And I cut them out of my head a week later.” Clint splashes his face with water, breathing deeply. “Something was wrong and no one believed me. There was this fucking _ringing_ sound. It just never _stopped_ and I–”

He’s getting frantic, so Bucky reaches out and pulls him as close as he can in the small tub. Clint breathes heavily into Bucky’s neck.

“I’ve never wanted to hide the fact that I’m deaf. But there’s always a risk to having a visible weakness.” 

“It’s not a weakness,” Bucky says automatically. “It’s a vulnerability. But being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak.”

Because between the two of them, they’re a walking factory of disabilities, but there’s nothing they can’t do. Together or apart they’re a force to be reckoned with, Bucky knows this for sure. He knows that Clint knows it as well because they’ve each held their own in a tight spot and have kicked ass from here to the moon. Clint being deaf or depressed doesn’t stop him from being the superhero he is.

“I know you think you’re only human,” Bucky tells Clint earnestly, “But you’re fucking amazing. And it’s _because_ of everything that makes you who you are, not in spite of anything.”

He knows that Clint isn’t going to directly respond to any of it, but that’s okay.

“It really hurt,” Clint says instead. 

“I know.” Bucky kisses the scars that sit just outside of his No Touch Zone. “I won’t let you hurt like that again, I promise.”

Bucky finds that he means it. And that fucking terrifies him. 

**4.**

Bucky sees it when he’s doing yoga. 

He’s upside down in a backbend and Clint is sat on the sofa with his bare feet propped up on the coffee table, eating potato chips as loud as humanly possible because Bucky is the only person in the world that doesn’t mind. So Clint gets it out of his system when his hearing aids are out and no one except Bucky is around.

“What–?”

“I jumped out of a fourth-story window with no shoes on.” He munches loudly on his chips. “Well, one shoe. The other one got lost in the skirmish. Glass, y‘know?”

Bucky doesn’t know because he always has his combat boots laced as tight as they’ll go. That’s how he’s worn his shoes since 1942 and he’s not about to stop now. 

He goes back to his yoga.

**5.**

It’s not often that they drive places, seeing as they have unrestricted access to S.H.I.E.L.D. quinjets and Tony’s helicopter, reserved for when he’s too injured to fly in the armor. So when Bucky is woken up by the sound of an engine rumbling and the vicious vibration of glass against his head, he jolts awake. His brain gets all muddled for more than a few seconds, not realizing where he is or why he’s in motion, and it’s a blind terror that he hasn’t known in a _while_. Not since he officially moved all of his – admittedly minimal – earthly possessions into Clint’s apartment. He’d forgotten what it was like to feel unsafe, but in this moment it all comes back like gravity, the metaphorical ground rushing up at him faster than he can account for. 

But Clint’s voice breaks through the fog like it always does these days and Bucky is being ushered onto solid ground. He falls into grass and breathes in the smell of earth and dog and coffee and… And it’s Clint. Clint is here, speaking softly to him. 

“You’re okay. It’s okay, you’re safe. It’s just me. It’s Clint. It’s alright.”

Then a wet tongue swipes across his face from his chin to his nose.

“Oh God, no,” Clint says frantically, “Lucky _no_, stop that.”

But it’s actually the act of wiping slobber from his face that pulls Bucky back to the surface enough to see where Clint is crouched in front of him. He’s trying to hold back the dog and comfort Bucky at the same time, but it’s not proving to be an easy endeavor. It must be obvious when Bucky is present again because Clint releases Lucky and pulls Bucky into his arms instead.

“God, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t _think_. I–”

“It’s okay,” Bucky manages to say, “I’m okay.”

Clint laughs awkwardly.

“Don’t be trying to comfort me, you idiot, I’m the one who fucked up.” He shakes his head and pulls back. “Doesn’t matter. No one’s fault, I know. You’re really okay? You need a few more minutes?”

Bucky shakes his head, gently getting to his feet and guiding the three of them to the car. He convinces Clint to start driving again, to pretend nothing happened. This was clearly supposed to be a surprise and Bucky wants it to stay that way. So he turns the radio up and watches Clint sing along to every song that plays. 

Clint always does a good job at pretending. 

His shirt collar slips off his shoulder at some point, the neck wide and loose by his nervous habit of pulling at it. There’s a perfect ring of teeth marks bitten into his skin. They’re not new, not from Bucky; they’re long scared over and probably carry another ridiculous story.

“What the hell is _that?_” Bucky asks, smiling stupidly. Amusement sits in his throat, ready to slip into a laugh. “Kink I don’t know about?”

Clint tucks his chin to his chest to get a look at what Bucky is pointing at. He smiles. 

“If there’s a kink I have that you don’t know about, chances are that I don’t know about it either. But that,” he looks back at the road, “Is from when Natasha turned into a vampire and turned me into one too. She got all agitated because she couldn’t see her reflection and knocked herself out running into a mirror, so I was all _Oh no, Nat!_ You know? And I was holding her too close, I guess! Because she bit me. And we spent two very long days as super annoying vampires trying to bite Steve.” He hums thoughtfully. “Not sure we didn’t try to turn anyone else. Just Steve.”

Bucky stares at the road.

“Steve would be a terrible vampire.”

“I know, right?”

**+1**

“Did _everyone_ really have to come on this trip?” Clint gripes to himself. 

Apparently, spaceships only come equipped with twin-sized bunk beds and only _two _rooms. And no one squirms the way Clint does when he’s trying to get comfortable in an unfamiliar bed. Bucky doesn’t have a problem with sharing the small space with Clint per sé, but he knows that sleeping in a bed that isn’t his makes Clint nervous. He brushes it off with half-hearted complaints and shifting under the covers, making light of what’s probably anxiety boiling in his stomach.

Not to mention that it’s, you know, space. 

Clint elbows Bucky in the stomach.

_“Ouch_, goddammit Clint. Stop it.” Bucky isn’t going to admit that it tickles so he feigns pain. “_Stop!_”

Clint stills with a violent movement, slamming his hands down on the mattress and sighing harshly at the slats of the bunk above them where Steve is snoring soundly. Bucky immediately feels bad. He knows better than to use harsh commands, to harden his voice in a way that makes Clint’s heart rate pick up and fear glint in his eyes. Clint can’t even _hear_ him, but the intonation of his voice had resonated clearly enough.

Besides, he’s in the wrong for making such a fuss, because he knows how frustrating it is to want to sleep and not being comfortable enough to just _do it._ Bucky can’t really relax either, not with Clint being so agitated and restless beside him. And now he’s gone and made it worse. He should… he should make it better. 

So Bucky reaches out slowly, puts a gentle hand on Clint’s cheek and strokes with his thumb until Clint’s eyes drift shut. His breathing evens out, and it feels like two seconds short of forever before Clint reciprocates the contact and curls around Bucky like a six-foot blanket. 

Clint nudges Bucky’s chin up with his nose, then taps a curled index finger to his head, just above his ear. _Hearing aid_. Bucky feels around on the floor next to their bunk until his fingers knock into plastic, and he hands them to Clint. The moment Clint can hear him again, he opens his mouth to apologize, but Clint beats him to the punch.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I was being annoying, I’m sorry.” He kisses Bucky’s nose. “I’m gonna go… eat something I guess. You can sleep if you want, I’ll be okay.”

Bucky immediately shakes his head. If there’s anything worse than nightmares and insomnia, it’s the thought of Clint being _alone. _Not if he doesn’t want to be. Not on Bucky’s watch. Clint tries to hide his grateful smile, but Bucky catches it anyway. 

The entire way to the kitchen, Clint drags his feet in that dead-end shuffle he does when he’s especially exhausted. He doesn’t often do it outside of the apartment, doesn’t like people knowing that he’s not a hundred percent fine all of the time. But he’s doing it now, and Bucky _knows_. He knows Clint is tired. Clint hadn’t wanted to come on his mission at all, and barely slept the whole way there. Then it all spectacularly went up in flames and he can’t sleep on the way back– Bucky can imagine how he’s feeling. 

“Hey.” Bucky stops him halfway, points towards the window they’ve stopped at. “You wanna?”

Clint perks up just the tiniest bit. “Won’t Quill be mad?” Then he laughs. “Yeah, come on, let’s do it.”

It’s worth getting electrocuted six times powering up the damn thing to see Clint smiling, laughing like a little kid in a bouncy house. He’s doing somersaults through the empty space of the anti-gravity chamber, and Bucky swears that he’s gonna break into NASA in the middle of the night whenever Clint can’t sleep if it’ll make him this happy. The pure joy that he radiates his so satisfying and so infectious, miles away from the depression that eats at him on the bad days. Bucky likes being able to make it just a little more bearable.

“Feel better?” Bucky calls from the bottom, unable to wipe his own smile off his face.

“I’d feel a lot better if you joined me!”

And, well, who’s Bucky to deny him? He kicks off the floor and meets Clint in the middle. Then Clint throws a faux punch that’s _almost_ impossible to dodge. So Bucky grabs his hands. 

“I’ll beat you up, Barton,” he warns jokingly.

Clint doesn’t bother with a comeback, just flips their hands to get a better grip on Bucky’s wrists and uses all of his strength to pull him into a kiss. And despite the force of their collision, the kiss is soft and sweet. The kind that makes little fireworks pop in Bucky’s head and his lips curl up into a smile. 

Somewhere along the way, Clint’s hands start to drift, and he accidentally presses his fingers into the scar on Bucky’s hip that’s always been sore and sensitive even though it _shouldn’t _be. It healed over years and years ago and it shouldn’t send a jolt up Bucky’s spine and panic into his heart, but he stiffens up considerably and tries to wrestle himself out of Clint’s hold on him. 

Clint’s hands are gone in an instant. 

“Woah, sorry.”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He pulls Clint back to him. “Just a, uh, scar.”

“Oh.” Clint’s face softens back into a smile. “Still, I’m sorry.”

Not for the first time, Bucky is floored by Clint’s unconditional acceptance and accommodation. It settles something in him, wrought from the simple comfort of being in Clint’s presence, and he finds himself speaking before he can stop it.

“It’s from when they first got me,” he blurts, startling himself. Clint’s expression mirrors what he thinks is the look of surprise on his own face. “They weren’t sure if I still had the serum in me or not, so they just… stabbed me. They didn’t think I was awake, and it didn’t feel like I was. I couldn’t move. They hadn’t even gotten the arm on yet. But,” Bucky stares at one of the freckles on Clint’s forehead, “I dunno. It hurt. It’s the only thing I remember from after I fell and before my first mission. The stupid thing… it never lets me forget.”

It’s not a particularly interesting story or even one of the worst ones that Bucky has told. It’s one of his bits and pieces stories, one that doesn’t need soft encouragement or comfort. He shrugs it off, dares to look at Clint’s face. 

And maybe Bucky should be offended that Clint is smiling like that, a stupidly bright look on his face, eyes soft and twinkling.

“What?”

Clint shrugs back at him. “Thanks for telling me.”

Bucky remembers then just how many times he’s withheld sharing, how many times Clint’s fingers have brushed over scar tissue and angry red lines and he kept quiet because he knew Bucky didn’t want to talk about it. He never pressed and never made Bucky feel like he had to tell him anything more than he wanted to. And Bucky has wanted to. He _wants_ to, from now on. Clint deserves every silly and not-so-silly anecdote of the marks that make up Bucky’s skin and the story of his terribly twisted life.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees dumbly. “You’re welcome.”

Then suddenly the rhythmic hum of the anti-gravity chamber stops, and they’re hurtling towards the floor. 

It’s padded for this exact reason, but when they hit the ground with a _thump_ and a _crack_ and Bucky ends up on his stomach with his stupidly tall boyfriend sprawled across his back, it hurts.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Sorry,” Clint grunts.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

It’s unmistakably Tony, banging on the glass and looking considerably harried. They all know that he wasn’t asleep, and even Tony looks put out as to why the hell he bothered interrupting them.

“Fuck you, Stark.”

“Hey.” Clint rolls off of Bucky and lies spread eagle on the padded floor. “_Hey_, Bucky.”

“What, Clint.”

“Love you.”

Bucky snorts a laugh, reaches out lazily to pat Clint’s stomach.

“Love you, too,” he says softly. “Let’s go beat up Tony, now.”

Clint nods, watching smugly as Tony’s silhouette is suddenly running away very quickly. He holds out his fist, making a tiny explosion sound when Bucky touches his own fist to Clint’s.

“Dream team.”


End file.
